In Dark Corners Read Online Free PDF Page A

work on any shift as a flange turner. He shook his head with a forced sense of resignation.
    Flange turner: an elite specialty on the Yard—proud, highly-skilled, well-respected. But very specialized, a trade required to craft steel to the exacting tolerances needed in nuclear submarines. A handful of men, their unique skills utilized only at Mare Island now that Hunter's Point was completely shut down. No, Ian knew that it was unlikely he'd ever again use a furnace, torch, or hydraulic hammer to bend, straighten, or shape a plate, shaft, or tube.
    Despite his vow about not feeling sorry for himself, Ian let out a long, sad sigh. He'd left much more than his tools over there across the narrow dark waters.
    Abruptly he turned and made his way back into Tug's, up to the bar next to his friend.
    Rucker, a flange turner who'd retired from Shop Eleven last summer, was working on a fresh Bud. "Hey, Sully, you okay?" he asked, a concerned expression on his face.
    Ian nodded, slipped back on his stool and signaled for another shot of Jack, then tipped up his bottle and took a long pull on the beer.
    "Thought you looked kinda pale there for a minute," Rucker said over the sound of the jukebox, the group Lynyrd Skynyrd singing "Sweet Home Alabama."
    "I'm fine," Ian responded, forcing a smile.
    "Well, the times are tough on everyone," Rucker said. "All the layoffs during the last couple of years. Now, the recession and the rumors of the Clinton administration completely closing down the Yard. Man, where's it gonna end?"
    Ian drained the shot of whiskey, nodding absently. Yeah, the last round of RIFs had been a shock to him. He really hadn't believed any of this would affect him. But here he was, drinking instead of going to work, and the way it looked, there would never be a Yard to go back to. He cleared his throat, remembering the vow he'd made to himself. At least Sadie, his wife, still had her secretary position with the law firm downtown. But even that didn't look too secure. And with Dana down at UC Santa Barbara and Liam out at Solano J.C., the old financial picture wasn't real rosy.
    Rucker leaned over and bumped his arm. "I asked how'd the interview go up in Napa at the pipe plant?"
    "Okay, I guess," Ian lied, knowing it hadn't gone well at all. They'd been looking for experienced pipe fabricators, and the personnel guy had even said: You are, ah, fifty, Mr. Sullivan? Ian had squirmed in his seat and nodded, feeling like confirming his age was admitting to having AIDS. But he wasn't about to tell his friend all that. Rucker kept harping about Ian taking advantage of the Yard's counseling and retraining program for those riffed. Dammit, he was a flange turner, period. He didn't want to be retrained as a machinist or a welder or a lathe operator. Now that he'd gone beyond technical skills, developing an intuitive, almost artistic sense in his craft, he wasn't sure he could be retrained at something else. Down deep Ian had to admit that despite all the signs he was really counting on the Yard not closing. He just knew he'd be called back. And if his friend couldn't understand his feelings, how could any retraining counselor at the Yard or this president for that matter.
    Rucker was still rambling on, "...Hey, man, you better lighten up on the hard stuff, that Jack Daniels'll put you under, you know what I'm saying—"
    Ian had enough lecturing and stood up suddenly, feeling a little shaky, his legs rubbery, and said, "I'm out of here, man." He glanced at his friend and hesitated for a moment, leaning against the bar for added support. Something looked funny.
    In the gathering darkness that was creeping into the bar through the big window facing the Yard, Denny Rucker looked kind of fuzzylike...shimmering for a moment, like a distant car looked through heat waves rising off a highway. Then, his image sharpened, outlined by a thin neon-blue line.
    As Ian continued to stare dumbfounded, his friend's voice grew in intensity for a